


Tender Is The Flesh, Sore Is the Soul

by VolxdoSioda



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Canon? What Canon?, Fix-It, Gen, if you don't like that then go away, no but seriously I'm ignoring canon in all my AC stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 09:10:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16741132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VolxdoSioda/pseuds/VolxdoSioda
Summary: Sometimes, Shaun feels guilty.





	Tender Is The Flesh, Sore Is the Soul

**Author's Note:**

> So last night in a fit of vindictive Gemini nature, morcai dragged me kicking and screaming back to AC fandom. So all blame for future AC fics can be laid squarely at their feet.
> 
> Also, I'm ignoring canon. Mainly because it's been forever since I played the games, and I barely remember anything outside of like, three ancestors. Eventually I'll get up-to-date with everything that's going on, but it's going to be a while, so I'd rather just not bother.

Sometimes, Shaun feels guilty. For the paths he’s taken, the choices he’s made. The sacrifices he’s allowed to go on. He recognizes on some level he shouldn’t, because an Assassin should always be ready to give up everything for the good of all. 

 

But it doesn’t stop him feeling the way he does. And in the early morning hours when sleep seems impossible, it often results in him finding his way to the rooftops of Monteriggioni. Most of the time, he stays there until he’s able to reason the guilt away, tuck the sharpened corners back into the spots where they belong, away from the soft memories. 

 

Most of the time, he’s alone as he does this, and he’s able to slink back into bed and pretend the weakness never happened.

 

Tonight, Altair stands on the edge of the rooftop, arms crossed, looking out into the expanse of blackness. In his borrowed t-shirt, he could almost pass for Desmond. But Shaun knows the span of Desmond’s shoulders compared to that of his immortal ancestors, and he knows the way Altair stands versus the way Desmond does. Appearances aside, the man is not close to being Desmond.

 

Somehow, that makes the guilt much worse.

 

Unsure if he can deal with that tonight, or with being so close to someone capable of seeing through him so easily, Shaun moves to descend back down. 

 

Only to wince when Altair’s head turns slightly, the smallest glint of gold a warning as eyes lock onto him. “I know you’re there,” he says softly, and Shaun bites his lips. Damn, damn and damn again, this is what he wanted to  _ avoid.  _ “Come out, boy.”

 

Swallowing, he steps back towards the rooftop, and turns to face Altair as one would their executioner. “Apologies, Master Altair. I was unaware anyone was up here. I’ll leave you--”

 

“Come.”

 

A chill runs down Shaun’s spine. Now he’s in trouble; Altair only needs a glance to know what he’s hiding, much as Ezio or any of them do. It’s why he avoids Desmond even more these days; because the older assassins play by no rules, and will not abide his excuses as to why he can’t let himself get attached to Desmond. Why he holds himself apart from their descendant, and lets cruelty find voice on his tongue when it should be kindness instead.

 

“Pardon?” He offers, hoping that perhaps he’s misheard, even if he knows he hasn’t. 

 

Altair lifts a hand to point at his side. “Here. Sit.”

 

Yes, he certainly hadn’t misheard. Hating himself more than ever before now, Shaun gingerly comes to the Master Assassin’s side, seating himself in his usual spot on the edge of the roof, peering out into the blackness. For a while, there is silence, and he can almost believe himself alone up here.

 

It is not to last, however. “There are only three of you left who hold our values true, Shaun Hastings. Who have not strayed from the path set before you.”

 

“I would not.”

 

“And yet, you avoid us. Avoid what we are - what must be.”

 

He’s talking of course about the  _ brother  _ aspect in brotherhood. Which leads back to Shaun and his guilt over what’s being done to Desmond - what he’s allowing to be done. After Lucy’s death, he’s been convinced it’s far safer and easier to hold Desmond back, to allow them a wall to come up between him and them. He’s been using the logic that Desmond is a Subject, and like all Subjects, he will fulfill his mission and then likely perish.

 

...and maybe it’s that last bit that has him feeling so much guilt. That Rebecca and he aren’t trying to make memories that will carry on when Desmond no longer can. They’re just letting the current take Desmond wherever it will, while they remain on the shore, untouched. A fine idea, on paper. In execution however, it’s far messier.

 

After all, it’s hard to hold yourself away from the person you see every day, especially when he knows their numbers are dwindling. The Templars are growing, unseen, like a parasite that refuses to die. 

 

“What help can we offer him?” Shaun retorts. “You said it yourself, Master Altair. Desmond is the one who will shift our fates off-course, not us. We would only prove a distraction.”

 

Sound logic, he tells himself. And yet a second later he thinks  _ perhaps not,  _ as Altair turns his head and regards him with golden eyes far too cold.

 

“He is your brother. And you are failing him.”

 

“He doesn’t need us.”

 

“He will always need you, even if he will not say it. For every avoidance you take, he hurts. You are wounding him, novice.”

 

Shaun winces. Ah, when Altair breaks out the  _ novice…  _ he must have screwed up quite bad indeed. Not that he didn’t already know that. He’s seen the little looks Desmond shoots him, passing by in the morning for coffee. Hopeful, wanting to say something but knowing he’ll be brushed off. 

 

“He’ll get over it,” Shaun says, and again, it’s the  _ wrong thing to say,  _ but Shaun says it all the same. Probably because he’s still trying to wind the thin string of logic that says  _ Desmond is a Subject, don’t get attached to Subjects  _ around his brain like a lifeline.

 

“You are three,” Altair says, and this time his voice is the softest it’s been yet. “And time is not on your side. Would you rather be left with regrets, things left unsaid, when he goes? If he goes?”

 

“If?”

 

Altair’s smile is as sharp as Malik’s once was. “He plays the games by a different set of rules, novice. What is to say he won’t survive?”

 

“Because he’s...the Animus is…”

 

“And yet,” Altair says lightly. “He has survived myself, and Ezio, Aveline, Connor, Haytham, Dorian, Shay and even Nikolai. He is halfway through surviving Jacob and Evie. Do you really think if he were to collapse and fade out, it would be after so long?”

 

Altair has a point, because of course he does. He almost always has a point, these days. Shaun almost wants to curse him out for it. He wants to say  _ Desmond won’t survive Juno, Juno will make sure of that.  _ Or maybe  _ the Templars grow in strength every day, grow in technology, they are outpacing us even as we build ourselves a weapon capable of defending us until our numbers grow.  _

 

What comes out instead is, “The age of Assassins won’t survive his death.”

 

“And that,” Altair says as he turns to go back inside. “Is precisely why you need to stand by each other. You are three against the world. Start acting like it.”

 

He leaves Shaun sitting there at the edge of the rooftops, staring out into the blackness that suddenly seems so much more threatening. Shoulders and mind heavy with the appointed challenge Altair has set before him.

 

_ You are three against the world. Start acting like it. _

 

Shaun lifts his glasses from his face, and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. If he does this, if he goes back in there tomorrow morning and makes a cup of coffee for three people instead of two, if he offers that cup to Desmond and talks softly to him about the nightmares he can hear plaguing the other man every so often, if he offers him a shoulder when he gets out of the Animus, there will be no going back.

 

And the blatant, ugly truth is that if he does that, he won’t have any sort of chance of recovery from Desmond’s death. None of them will. Altair has planted a seed of hope, but the odds don’t look fantastic, and Shaun has never been an optimist about their odds. Not out here. If  Desmond survives, great, fantastic. 

 

But if he doesn’t, it will break him and Rebecca, sure as anything. It will be a wound, a death they won’t get back up from. It’s why Shaun’s held back all these many months. Because at least if he isn’t attached, he might survive Desmond’s death. With a thousand regrets, sure, but wouldn’t that be preferable?

 

He thought so before. Now he isn’t so sure.

 

Normally, he would be gone before dawn creeps across the horizon, the guilt banished. Tonight he stays even as dawn arrives, staring off into the distance, no closer to finding an answer than before. It’s only when the sun starts properly appearing that he gets to his feet and stumbles inside, feeling shaky and far too out of his depth. 

 

Desmond is already awake, as is Rebecca. The coffee pot remains untouched, waiting for the brewing to start. Mechanically, Shaun walks over and begins fixing it the way he and Rebecca tend to like it. And then he stands there and waits for the pot to fill, listening with one ear as Desmond speaks softly to Ezio in Italian, and then fluently switches over to Arabic when Altair walks in.

 

It’s incredible, really, what results the Animus has produced in Desmond. He moves and fights like the perfect combination of his distant ancestors mixed with his own talents, and has picked up every bit of language or knowledge they knew and absorbed it like a sponge. 

 

The pot pings to let him know it’s done, and he reaches into the cabinet for his usual mug, along with Rebecca’s. His fingers graze a third, and Altair’s voice filters back into his head from last night.

 

_ You are three against the world. Start acting like it. _

 

It’s a chipped thing, worn with cracks and age, but it will do for this. He pours the coffee, not even lamenting his ability to have a second cup before needing to reset the pot with this. “Rebecca, coffee’s up. Desmond, come get it while it’s hot.”

 

“...what?”

 

Shaun turns his head just a little. “Coffee. The black gold of the universe. You’ve a long day ahead of you - you’re going to need it. Come get some.” He lifts the mug, holding it out expectantly.

 

Desmond’s staring at him like he’s just announced he’s swapped to the side of the Templars. Then he blinks a couple times when Ezio nudges him with a foot, and gets up, walking over to take the cup from Shaun’s hands. Rebecca’s staring holes in the sides of his face, and he can practically feel Desmond’s confusion. 

 

“Thanks.”

 

“Mmhm.”

 

The anxiety in his gut unwinds at last as Desmond goes to sit back down, still looking between him and the coffee like he isn’t quite sure about it. Ezio shakes his head, and goes back to speaking, and after a few more seconds Desmond switches his attention to that instead. Shaun leaves after a few moments to grab keys and jacket to go buy more groceries. He adds several more items to their list of junk food. 

 

_ No going back now, I suppose,  _ he thinks as he leaves.  _ Three against the world isn’t exactly nice even odds.  _

 

By the time he gets back to the hideout, Desmond is already in the Animus. Ezio and Altair are gone, though Shaun has no doubt one or the other isn’t far away. As soon as she sets eyes on him, Rebecca mutes her mike and turns to him. “Shaun. What the hell was that earlier?”

 

Ah, and now there’s this. “My attempts at fixing something I overlooked.”

 

“And what happened to the hands-off approach?”

 

“It’s been binned until further notice.”

 

“He’s a Subject--”

 

“I’m aware.” 

 

The groceries get put away even as they argue, the keys put back in their spot in the kitchen. There’s a shadow moving above them, which tells Shaun where one or the other Assassins is. Rebecca doesn’t appear to see it. 

 

“So we’re gonna get attached even though he’s going to die? Really, Shaun?”

 

“Yes, really.”

 

Desmond’s face when he’d offered the coffee earlier has stuck in his mind since he left. The anxiety and guilt haven’t returned. He might be bumbling his way through this, but he’s fixing his mistakes. 

 

Rebecca doesn’t look pleased. Or convinced. “Why?”

 

Shaun scowls. “It was brought to my attention that there are three of us left.”

 

“Yeah, and?”

 

“And perhaps now is not the time to play ‘keep away’ with one of our brothers. Especially not when he’s doing all the work.”

 

It’s quiet while Rebecca rolls that around in her head, and for that Shaun is grateful. It’s somewhat easier to understand Altair’s logic when he has to explain it to someone else - even if there’s still a small part of his brain screaming about how stupid it is to get attached to a dying man.

 

Still, they’re Assassins. Logic practically runs against their aims at this point. And when Desmond gets up, Shaun will offer him that shoulder, fix up another pot of coffee, nettle their resident Templar-killer to eat something before he passes out, and then either drift back to the Animus or off to bed for a nap, depending on what Desmond wants. 

 

But he’s not going to hesitate about it. They don’t have that kind of time, or those kinds of numbers, anymore. 

 

Desmond fresh out of the Animus is a cross between drunk and exhausted, and he doesn’t fight Shaun when he offers a shoulder to lean on while he gets his bearings. What neither expects is for Rebecca to get on the other side of him. She gives Shaun a  _ Look  _ over the top of Desmond’s head that clearly means  _ you’re an absolute mad bastard and I hate that you’ve brought me to this,  _ but her voice is pitched low as she asks what Desmond wants. 

 

The shadow crosses above them again, and this time Shaun looks up to find Altair peering down at them, something like the faintest smile crossing his lips. He gives a single nod before leaping to another beam and out a nearby window, and Ezio swings in, taking over for the Levatine Assassin. 

 

“Don’t suppose we’ve got any food?” Desmond asks, the accent he was sporting moments ago gone as he reorients himself to the world. “Something easy to make, like soup?”

 

“We do indeed have soup, given I just went to the store. Think you’re up to eating chicken noodle?”

 

“I don’t care what it is, just give me something before my stomach murders me.”

 

Progress, Shaun reminds himself as the soup cooks in the microwave. Small steps, but progress all the same.


End file.
